Baseball Season

A New York Times is the day rolled
under an arm as it begins to rain.
The player catches a baseball to win
the game, celebrates a death.
It’s all over. She loves you for who
you are. You don’t know it yet
but you are loved by everyone
for dying. There’s no other reason.

The story of your life is above the fold.
Column four, next to a coffee stain.
The baseball rises, rises, into the thin
air. Everyone holds, holds, their breath.
It begins. You and her are through.
You take a slow pull on a cigarette
and stare for hours at the sun,
denying. It’s baseball season.